


From Every Care You Could Release Me

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 04:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15283536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Nadia gives Portia a poetry book. She may have multiple motives.





	From Every Care You Could Release Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for thearcanaweek's Nadia Week free day. The quoted poetry is fragments of Sappho’s work, and therefore not written by me.

Nadia sits draped across the chaise lounge, a wine glass in hand, when Portia enters. She is only slightly less prompt than usual, her belabored breathing revealing that she sprinted to Nadia’s chambers. Quickly she gathers herself. “You needed me, Milady?”

“Portia. No, I know you are off duty. Be at ease, I wish only to give you something.”

As amusing as she finds Portia’s surprise, it represents a lapse on Nadia’s part. By now she should have given Portia jewels, dresses, and bouquets such that another offering would beget only her lovely smile. Her current gift is far simpler, though as Portia has taught her, a personal touch means more than riches.

She beckons, shifting her legs to make room, and Portia perches at the edge of her seat. By now she cannot hide her eagerness, that smile lighting up her visage as she leans forward like a cat ready to pounce. Again her surprise is apparent when Nadia hands over a slim purple book, which Portia takes carefully.

“I obtained it from a visiting merchant whose island is home to a poet of some renown. I thought you might enjoy it.”

Though Nadia remains collected, she cannot keep her cheeks from heating. Truthfully she has no idea how the gift will be received. After a peek inside, Portia clasps the book to her chest. “Thank you, Milady. It’s sweet of you to think of me.”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t, dear Portia. That said, I have a favor to ask.”

Again Portia leans forward, close enough for Nadia to admire the freckles dusting her shoulder where her shirt has slipped. Having trained herself not to fidget, Nadia instead bides time by sipping her wine.

“I offer this gift freely. Should you prefer to read privately, I will not rescind it,” Nadia says. She takes another sip. At the appropriate age of four she insisted she no longer needed anyone to perform this task for her, though it had still happened, and she  _ may  _ have occasionally enjoyed it. “However, when you read to me in my slumber, I’m afraid I was too indisposed to appreciate it. I would rather enjoy hearing you read now.”

It’s not entirely true that Nadia couldn’t appreciate it. She doesn’t remember it, of course, or she would have known Portia could read. But she woke to a face she didn’t know and a heart she did, and her intuition led her to trust Portia from that moment on. It was the first clue that intuition would not fail her. Still, even now she would rather trust that which is in front of her, along with memories clear enough to not bring on headaches.

“I’m happy to read to you, Milady, but I’ve gotta warn you it won’t be, um, good. It hasn’t been that long since I learned, and my accent—”

—is part of why Nadia finds the idea so charming, though she knows better than to say so. “It will be good practice. Consider it a continuation of your lessons.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t waste your time with that!”

“Portia.” Patiently Nadia sets down her glass to fold her hands. “Who summoned you to my rooms? If anything, you could consider this an ill use of your time. I have not ordered it.”

“Never, Mi—Nadia.” She searches Nadia’s face, and Nadia nods in approval.

Portia opens the book, takes a deep breath, and begins to read. It is clumsy, as she halts at points of confusion rather than ends of stanzas. But the words roll on her tongue, and Nadia forgets them in favor of her beloved’s strong, throaty voice and the way her lips form around the sounds.

When Nadia pays attention to the meanings, it is difficult to maintain her composure. Perhaps it was too indulgent to hand Portia this particular book. Had she not thought Portia would enjoy it, she would never have done it, but she cannot deny an ulterior motive.

“You came and I was crazy for you, and you cooled my mind that—that burned with longing.”

Portia stops to breathe deeply, prompting Nadia to place a finger on the page. Wordlessly Portia hands it back, her face ashen everywhere it isn’t red, and it occurs to Nadia that Portia thinks she is revoking the gift.

“Thank you for your reading. I shall return it shortly,” Nadia assures her. “I thought it only fair to take a turn.”

Portia looks like she wants to protest, but she only brings her palms together and says, “I’m sure you’ll show me how it’s done.”

Nadia is trained in poetry, of course—both the writing and the reading—though she’s never read with a beautiful woman looking at her expectantly. She forms the words with purpose, reciting the lines without breaking eye contact.

“Come to me now, then, free me from aching care, and win me all my heart longs to win.”

Her fingers rise to graze Portia’s cheek, the skin hot to the touch. Portia’s gaping remains both amusing and dispiriting as Nadia returns the book.

“I would like to do this again,” Nadia murmurs, “if it suits your comfort.” Portia’s head bobs.

“I’ll study it before then, so I can do it like—like you did.”

Nadia smiles at the image. “I very much look forward to it.”


End file.
